


Déjà Vu

by LunaStorm



Series: The Trip of a Lifetime [3]
Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Stargate SG-1
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-19 08:14:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4739249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaStorm/pseuds/LunaStorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Daniel sometimes has the oddest sense of déjà vu, River broadens the definition of archaeology, and O'Neill hates weird alien rituals (even the tame ones).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sometimes, during festivals and celebrations among Sha're's people, Daniel has the oddest sense of _déjà vu_ _._

 

Didn't he taste this wine before? This denser, concentrated wine, spicy and cool, so very different from what he might have found on Earth... How come he is so sure its sweet scent heralds trouble?

“It is very precious,” his wife tells him, slightly defensive. “It comes all the way from the Ala'hara region, where Ra's Stars grow, and we can only have it once every five years, when the Ala'haran merchants come by. You ought to enjoy it.”

“Ra's Stars?”

“They are blue flowers with a flame at their heart, so the merchants say. They're very valuable and only grow on water.”

Daniel can't explain his uneasiness with it, but can't bring himself to indulge in the sweet-scented wine either.

 

Wasn't there a lot more water the last time he heard this melody – wait, where would he have heard Abydonian music before?

And yet the compelling tune of pipes and cymbals is distantly familiar.

He explains it away with his long-standing obsession with all things Egyptian: the Abydonian culture is extremely close to what Ancient Egypt would have been like. But still. It's not like Egyptian hieroglyphs could have played a tune for him!

Sha're smiles uncertainly – she's often confused by her husband, marvelous though she thinks he is – and he lets it go.

 

Why isn't he more surprised when a tribe from the mountains comes by to trade, and their leader is wrapped in a longish, black leather jacket?

That's not exactly what he would call Ancient Egyptian fashion.

Of course, leather items are a part of daily life here on Abydos – furniture, footwear, cordage. Nothing he wouldn't have expected to find in an Egyptian tomb.

But a leather jacket? And black? Red and green dyes are achieved with iron and copper compounds, and white with chalk, but blue and black aren't represented in any archaeological findings from the period, on Earth.

Clearly, it's one of the cases where this culture followed a slightly different evolution path in the intervening years – perfectly reasonable – but then why doesn't the idea of a black leather jacket in the Egyptian desert strike him as out of place? Why is he almost convinced that he's seen a man wearing a similar thing in ancient Egypt before, when the very thought makes no possible sense?

 

Years later, stepping through Gate after Gate with his team, he has flashes of the same, disorienting feeling.

 

Why is he not surprised by archaeological remains of a pyramid on Mars, of all places?

“It looks like there might have been a device that beamed a signal towards Earth,” reports SG-5 in amazement and Daniel automatically nods in recognition, before he realizes he could not possibly have known or even imagined such a thing.

“...Perhaps a leftover from your time through the Quantum Mirror?” ventures Carter, sounding doubtful.

Daniel doubts it, but does not voice his unease.

 

How does he know he shouldn't touch that lodestone – when he isn't even sure what a lodestone is?

“Just... leave it alone, ok?” he says weakly.

“How the hell would you know?” asks Jack grumpily when the archaeologist stays vocally adamant that it should not be activated, no matter what.

“I-- I don't know,” stammers Daniel, feeling confused.

“You don't know,” deadpans Jack.

“I must have read it somewhere,” he says helplessly, ignoring his friend's glare.

“If you've been playing around with that Repository, so help me, Daniel...!”

The archaeologist can only shrug.

 

“How did you know there would be a trap, DanielJackson?” asks Teal'c, sounding impressed.

Daniel is frowning at little octagonal clay pieces that he might have seen before, possibly, maybe, and twisting them over and over because there is something there he just can't quite grasp.

“I'm... not sure... just a feeling?” He sighs, not liking this feeling of confusion. “I really don't think we should poke about – there might be other traps...”

But Jack is cursing, squeezed in a rusty cage dangling over a ditch that had been accurately disguised, demanding they get him down _now_.

They fumble about a bit and Carter barely manages a “Sir, I think I've found--” before a volley of green lasers shoots up from the very ditch underneath them.

Only Teal'c's excellent reflexes save Daniel. As it is, his glasses tumble hopelessly into the ditch. He doesn't even contemplate retrieving them.

Looking up, he sees that his best friend's upper uniform is in tatters, though thankfully he's managed to save his skin. Most of it, at least.

A long moment of silence is broken by a slightly-traumatized Jack: “Fine. Whatever. Next time you tell me to stay away from something, _I will_.”

“That'll be the day,” snorts Carter.

Later, SGC asks some very pointed questions, starting with how in all of the cosmos could he have known that that symbol scratched on the dial-home device meant they should be wary of traps?

Daniel has no answers. At least, not sensible ones.

“I... saw it in a dream,” he says lamely when they press him.

He wavers a little. It was a dream, right?

 

He never finds out the truth, but sometimes he dreams of a blue box that holds all his dreams and desires, and of a strange, wonderful madman wearing a leather jacket.

 

However crazy those dreams become – not that dreams make sense, as a rule, but these are particularly strange, in a good way – the weirdest thing is the soundtrack: a barely-there song of chiming sliver-bells in the wind and a wheezing, trumpeting sound, rising in a crescendo of hope until a final, triumphant thud.

 

He likes those dreams.

 

And then comes the day when he hears the incredible sound for real.


	2. Chapter 2

The whole thing starts like a thousand other missions do, with a normal exploration gig through a new address.

That's what SG-1 does, after all.

 

It continues like a thousand other missions do, with a normal disastrous first contact – some sort of diplomatic mistake devolving into the kind of clusterfuck his team seems to attract with uncommon talent, a catastrophic mess of misunderstandings they'll have to solve or risk having a war on their hands on a planet whose naquadah levels are beyond promising.

That is also what SG-1 does, sort of.

 

And then it takes a decided turn for the bizarre.

 

Because there is a woman there, in the cell he is thrown in after Sam and Teal'c are led away – Jack, at least, had managed to high-tail it, which means they'll probably be rescued, at least – and she is so out of place Daniel can scarcely believe her real.

 

She has a wild mass of blondish corkscrew curls and an odd electronic device in her hand – some sort of scanner judging by the way she's moving it all over the lower part of a wall, but nothing Daniel has ever seen: not Earth tech, not a Goa'uld design. Very odd.

Perhaps it is a camera: she seems very intent on taking pictures of the lower wall she's examining. It is a strangely designed camera, if it is; nothing like he's ever seen before and definitely years beyond what scant technology they've seen so far on this rather primitive, agricultural planet.

That she isn't from around here is obvious. Not only is she muttering in what is, Daniel's trained ear confirms, British English; there's also her clothes.

The soil here is mostly a vivid red, or sometimes dark yellow, because of the abundance of iron oxides; the color choices for clothes tend to reflect this, much like the browns and tans of many a culture on Earth. She, however, is wearing an olive green, sleeveless dress, flatteringly fitted at the top, loose and flouncy below the belt, over stout khaki leggings – out of place on a planet where men and women alike wear short skirts and layered wrappings hiding their upper bodies. 

Plus, well.  _British English_ .

 

“Who are you?” he blurts out.

She can't possibly be a member of the Stargate program, can she? He's never seen her before. She's not in uniform. She's... odd.

His eyes linger on the thick leather belt for the midriff area and the thigh-holster on her right leg.

Oh, and the gun. The one in the holster.

Daniel is rather concerned by the gun.

He has one too, of course – years in the military and all that – but the very fact he still has it prove the locals do not even know what it is.

Just who is this strange woman?

 

She's whirled around at his exclamation and is examining him with a trained soldier's stare, sizing him up, making him feel self-conscious.

She looks supremely unconcerned with being in a prison cell. In fact, she looks more like she's the queen of the place, graciously allowing the scowling guards to remain in her presence.

After a moment, she smiles seductively at him: “Well, well,” she purrs. “Doctor Daniel Jackson, as I live and breathe!”

He is instantly on his guard.

“How do you know my name?”

“I am _so_ glad to meet you.” She slinks forward with deadly grace, a hand outstretched. “Doctor River Song, archaeologist.”

“ _You_ are an archaeologist?” Daniel can't help asking, skeptical.

Her luscious lips stretch in dangerous smile. “I greatly admire your work, Dr. Jackson. Such visionary ideas for your time! I absolutely agree with your approach to research, you know, it is my own as well.”

Daniel tries to calculate the odds of meeting an incongruous British archaeologists with a seductive aura of mystery, on a random planet half a galaxy away from Earth, who just so happens to be a fan of his, and his mind just doesn't compute. Maybe he's hallucinating.

“And the discoveries credited to you...” she goes on with an annoying, knowing smile. “You're the best archaeologist of this age! Truly, you are brilliant. And believe me, I _know_ brilliance,” she says, thoroughly embarrassing him.

“Err... yes, well... I... thank you, er... Doctor Song...” stammers Daniel.

“Oh, _please_ call me River,” she purrs. “I've always wanted to meet you. You're one of my heroes, you know!” 

Daniel gapes, not sure if he is incredibly flattered or slightly terrified.

 

She claims to be an archaeologist, and Daniel isn’t entirely sure how this makes him feel. Mostly, he's having trouble wrapping his mind around it. Indiana Jones and Lara Croft aren't exactly realistic models of archaeological researchers.

Of course,  _he_ is an archaeologist, and he goes around visiting distant planets, making Earth's first contacts, waving energy weapons around, getting in trouble (and out of it) with System Lords, saving planets (including his own) from assorted alien threats. Also studying lost languages and examining artifacts of ancient civilizations of course, although these days it seems almost an afterthought rather than his reason for living as it used to be.

But, well. The Stargates count as extenuating circumstances, after all.

What is  _her_ excuse?

 

He can't help being fascinated by the carvings she points out to him.

They're beautiful in a rough, unelaborated way, the coarse-grained surface of the local stone giving power to the simple lines and volumes of the compositions, making them meaningful without any need for polishing or color. They only cover the lower portion of the wall, any other surface left bare and unadorned, and Daniel lays on the dusty floor to examine the figures closely, wondering about the scant detail, the significance of the ground frieze.

The blonde woman brazenly shares her knowledge of the local art, sounding halfway between a tour guide and a university lecturer. He kind of likes it.

She's there, she tells him, to document these very carvings, which she's studying in the future, while they're still in the present.

He gives up any questioning line centering around the time travel part of her explanation right from the start. He knows it is possible; he knows it invariably complicates things; he knows that attempting to understand it makes it worse. Like with that indeterminacy principle Sam keeps going on about. If you look close enough to understand it, it's gotten too complicated to understand. Best not to think too hard on it.

“Sounds like an amazing opportunity,” he remarks neutrally.

“Oh, yes! I'll be the envy of the entire faculty. Give it twelve centuries and this will be a hotspot of archaeological research in this sector,” she says airily. “Of course, we thought this was a tomb, not a prison... love a tomb,” she confides.

Daniel doesn't trust himself to comment.

 

“Why don't you tell me what happened?” she says abruptly.

“Hm?” Daniel raise his head in confusion, gaping slightly at her. What is she on about?

She's watching him with a knowing look. Again.

“You're imprisoned, Dr. Jackson. That doesn't usually happen without a reason.” She pauses briefly. “At least, not unless you're travelling with my husband.”

“Husband?” Daniel is surprised. Wasn't she flirting with him? He'd thought... Ah. Maybe he got it wrong. Wouldn't be the first time. Still...

“So what did you do?” she asks, ignoring him.

He's not entirely sure why he starts talking, but once he's begun, why should he stop? So their whole, brief but disastrous stay on this planet is quickly sketched for her convenience.

“...and Jack decided to try the fruit, which was apparently a very bad idea, because as soon as he jumped to pick it they started shouting and...”

“Oh, well, that was your mistake right there, then,” she interrupts cheerfully.

“What?”

“He jumped.”

“...”

“This culture is very particular about leaving the ground.”

“...What?”

 

Daniel is busy trying to puzzle out her comment, but she doesn't seem inclined to elucidate it.

“Well, we'd better get out then,” she says instead, cheerfully.

“What?” he asks again, feeling like a gaping idiot.

“I'm done here. I doubt you have any interest in remaining?”

Daniel shakes his head.

“Then we should go.”

“We're in prison,” he points out stupidly.

“Yes. And we're getting out.” 

She adjusts her shoulder-straps with sensual confidence and Daniel has to work to dredge up a little, weak sarcasm:  “ Gladly, but how?”

“Oh, Dr. Jackson. I make it a _hobby_ to break out of jails...”


	3. Chapter 3

She doesn't walk out. She struts. There is no other way of putting it.

Daniel scrambles after her, too flustered to even feel embarrassed.

“I can't believe you managed that!” he hisses, not sure if he's awed in a good way or in a bad way. Probably a bit of both.

Her mop of blond curls bounces vivaciously with every strong step she takes.

“A little bit of charm, and a good dose of official papers in working order,” she says sweetly, shrugging it off modestly.

Daniel isn't fooled. Even her _shoulders_ are smug.

“Oh, and a cleavage that could fell an ox at twenty feet,” she adds, showing it off with a wicked smile and making him choke on his splutter.

He can't even argue. The guards she fooled weren't looking at her _face_ , that's for sure.

Recovering what little dignity he can grasp at – and studiously not looking at her – Daniel protests: “You can't possibly have official papers. You're not from here. You're so not from here there probably isn't even a word to say how not from here you are.”

“I told you I'm from the future,” Doctor Song points out. “I came prepared.”

“No.” He shakes his head, doggedly insisting even if it doesn't really matter that much. Or at all. “No, you aren't from this planet, or from this culture's future, not at all.”

“What makes you think so?” she asks, widening her eyes in a very unsuccessful play of innocence.

Daniel wonders if she's asking for the whole list.

Eventually, he starts with: “Your boots. All those buckles and zips – I hardly think a culture with little to no metals could have come up with them. Even in the future.”

“Ah, well.” She smiles winningly. “They're comfortable, practical _and_ stylish. How can a girl resist?”

Daniel blinks.

Song grins defiantly. “Got them from trade?” she offers.

“What about your clothes?” he fires back.

She waves him off unconcernedly, however: "Fashion's about the most in-flux element of any and all cultures. The slightest thing can send it barrelling down a completely different path, and generally, without any effect on the timelines...”

She's very authoritative, projecting competence and surety, technobabbling better than Sam, but Daniel knows how to handle this kind of genius-speak.

“And you're speaking English,” he says over her, with calm precision.

She's not flustered, to his very slight annoyance (Sam would have been) and her tirade is not so much derailed as skilfully switched onto another track.

“Maybe I just have a better translation circuit than you're used to,” she teases with irritatingly charming self-assurance. “One that makes you _hear_ English because it's your mother language, no matter what I'm really speaking.”

Daniel stops and glares at her through his glasses. “Oh, really? Then why am I hearing _British_ English?”

She pauses, and shoots him a look of grudging admiration. “Because I _am_ speaking English,” she admits and starts walking again, perhaps a little faster.

“But why British?” he can't help asking, genuinely curious.

“What's wrong with being British?” she asks defensively.

“Nothing, nothing!” he hurriedly raises his hands in surrender. “Wait, you mean you're actually British?” She shoots him a dark look and he scrambles again: “Don't-- I didn't-- I wasn't even sure you're from Earth! It's... er...”

She sniffs mock-haughtily: “I was raised in Leadworth.”

“ _Leadworth_? Seriously?” The idea of a blonde little girl from Nowhere-in-England growing up into _this_ amazing woman strikes him as more than slightly unbelievable. “Where the hell even _is_ it?”

She glares warningly at him.

He shuts up.

 

For about thirty seconds, before shaking off his thoughtfulness and running to catch up with her long strides.

“Wait. Wait!”

She pointedly ignores him.

“No, wait, look, I'm sorry and all – but what did you mean, about jumping and leaving the ground and...?”

Relenting a little – she quite clearly likes to lecture, Daniel notices – Dr. Song launches into an explanation: “The Igraians think anything disconnected from the ground is unholy. They are extremely careful to always remain in touch with the soil. The same goes for anything of theirs: they do not hang, suspend or dangle their things. You must have noticed that their art doesn't extend past a relatively low line on their walls?”

Daniel's eyebrows are rising with the fascination other cultures always spark in him. “Veneration of a natural manifestation of nature brought to an extreme, most likely a form of goddess worship – are they matriarchal? I didn't notice the signs...” he wonders aloud.

“Babies are considered the greatest gift, coming into being full of innocence, and of course, they cannot leave the ground on their own," Song continues with just as much enthusiasm. "The first movement is crawling, when you think of it... they believe learning to stand and walk is a sign of their progressive loss of innocence.”

“That actually makes sense,” comments Daniel happily. She raises her eyebrows and he hastily adds: “Sort of.”

With an eye-roll, she goes on: “Jumping is... it's at once obscene and deplorable, in their view. Nobody is entirely sure how this particular taboo came to be, but it is easy to observe that there is only one species of birds on this planet and they're scavengers – hardly a positive image."

“Fascinating!”

"The oddest thing is, almost all insects are also wingless...” her voice grows animated and Daniel is hanging from her every word.

The more she explains, the more her eyes shine with liveliness; the more he listens, the more his admiration grows in spite of himself.

 

It is only when he finds himself under the thready canopy of the huge rhododendrons that grow into trees here, well past the tidy fields of peas and beets and the strange blue tomatoes that are the cornerstone of the local cuisine, that he realizes nobody so much as looked at them as they breezed out of the village.

Well, that was easy.

“I should go back to rescue my team,” he thinks aloud.

“If we can find some quairwax, it'll be much easier.”

“Some what?!”

“The ritual to regain the Soil's blessing requires a symbolic acknowledgement of its superiority over all other elements,” Doctor Song explains matter-of-factly. “It includes pouring from a jug, breathing into the ground, offering some blood, burying some food... and lighting a quairwax stick inside a hole.”

“Water, air, life, sustenance and energy,” realizes Daniel. He adjusts his glasses and fights the temptation to go on and on giddily about the ethnological connotations – Jack is always giving him _Looks_ when he does – and he should focus on the practicalities anyway. Saving the team first, research later. Hopefully. “So quairwax... it's like a candle?”

“Pretty much.” Her smile is self-satisfied and he finds it irritating. But he also kind of likes it. Perhaps.

He sighs. “Fine. Where do we find a quairwax stick?”

He is seriously alarmed by the way she turns to look at him and smiles like a smug cat. “In the Caves of Mailagra,” she says.

Yep. A dangerous, panther-like cat.

“This day just keeps getting better,” she purrs.

 

Quairwax, it turns out, is a natural secretion of a paraffin-like material left behind by the evaporation of oily minerals, somewhat similar to Earth's ozokerite (but thankfully not as smelly).

It's easy to scrape it off the fissures and crevices it fills, but less than pleasant.

At least there are a lot of cracks in the mountainside they're in, which let the dark orange sunlight pour through and chase away any scary feeling the tunnels might have evoked. They're actually a rather pleasant place, these caves – except for the quairwax secretions staining everything in sight.

Dr. Song is not helping. She merely looks at Daniel's efforts, arms crossed nonchalantly. He makes an effort not to grow irritated.

“Do they find a better way to light their homes?” he wonders, grimacing at the slimy texture he's sure will not come off his skin, let alone his clothes. “In the future, I mean.”

“Actually, once this planet gets to electricity phase, quairwax will become their greatest resource: it's a wonderful electrical insulator. And if mixed with rubber it hardens in whatever shape it's cast, with the same final resistance as cement. Excellent for construction work,” answers Dr. Song.

Daniel's grimace widens. “Tell me again why we couldn't buy a quairwax stick from the local market instead?”

He glares at her from where he's getting his hands and clothes stained beyond redemption with the oily mineral and she merely gives him a bland smile.

“The candles for daily use are made from refined quairwax, boiled with water to make the paraffin rise to the surface and skim off the impurities, but for the ritual, the important part is that the quairwax comes straight from the ground. Just try and brush off the rocks and shale as best you can,” she instructs him.

After a pause, she adds: “Also, I wanted to come to these Caves. There is no trace left of them or of what destroyed them, but the records of this period talk of an important religious site in this area. I'm curious.”

He huffs in irritation.

She's moving slowly around now, her strange device tracing every square inch of the rocky area, recording or scanning or both; her voice echoes lightly in the tunnels.

Daniel wants to curse her, or at least roll his eyes at her, but he sort of can't, because – well. Now he wants to explore these caves too.

 

Later, while getting out of the quairwax mine with his hard-earned, slimy prize, Daniel accidentally trips over something and triggers a rumbling sound of stone scraping against stone.

It wouldn't mean much, except that every archaeologist’s and adventurer's sense he has developed over the years is tingling, screaming at him to check it out, that it's important.

He glances at Dr. Song and she's got a similar expression on her face.

In beautiful unison, they turn back and seek out the door that has opened for them thanks to Daniel's blunder.

 

The cavern they enter is vast, stretching wide and long far beyond where their eyes can see, but the uneven, rocky ceiling is so low they both have to bend their heads. A marvellously carved floor spreads out under their feet, lovingly moulded lines etched deeply in the rocks to form a tapestry of animals and people vividly telling their stories against a detailed background of leaves and flowers.

Daniel itches to study every inch of it.

By unspoken agreement, they start with the walls, where, like in the prison, no imaging or even geometrical decoration can be found above a clear demarcation line.

“Three feet from the floor, never higher,” Daniel mutters in fascinated concentration. It is, in a way, utterly ridiculous (though no more than other customs he's encountered before), but also kind of bewitching. “This really goes in favour of your theory about a religious meaning of the distance from the ground...”

“It's not three feet, it's seven markers,” Song corrects in a lecturing tone, but with hidden excitement. “A marker is the unit of measure in this culture, the standard length of their most precious herb, the cleefar, once it naturally turns to stone at the end of its life cycle. Seven is the maximum number of petrified cleefar that can be balanced in a tower before collapsing, so it's the maximum distance from the ground they are allowed.”

Too competent to neglect proper procedures even in their excitement, they cursorily document everything they're finding, but it is the floor that truly captivates them, of course. The level of detail and the quality of the art is beyond anything they've seen in this culture so far.

"Look at the intricacy of these plants!" Daniel enthuses. "It is possible that this is intended as an encyclopedia of sorts...”

“No size differences in the depiction of Igraians, this must not be the recording of epics or myths...” speculates Song.

The light of discovery in their eyes is uncannily alike. Lost in the wonder of this buried treasure, they call out their findings with giddy smiles, throw theories back and forth, bicker happily about different hypotheses.

“It actually reminds me more of a text book than a story book.”

“Yes! Look! These could be instructions for the harvest of frufar cobs!...”

“And here! A ceramist at work!...”

Daniel doesn't even notice that sometime half-through, she becomes River, nor that she's appropriated some pages torn from his notebook for her notes and sketches as naturally as he's been using her not-quite-a-camera-but-close-enough. They really do work well together.

 

It could have been minutes later, but Daniel's watch assures him it's actually been hours, when they are startled out of their happy place by an explosion rocking the cave.

Everything goes quiet for a long moment, then a rattle of balancing rocks morphs into a thunderous landslide. Daniel thinks randomly that it's the kind of effect he's only ever seen in movies. And considering his experience with cave-ins and strangeness, that's saying something.

“That sounded like an explosion,” he says lamely.

“Because it was,” replies River, pushing her hair off her forehead and gripping her gun.

A second rumbling earthquake shakes the ground, making Daniel stagger and stumble.

“That sounded like another explosions!” he says in an almost squeaky voice.

“Again, because it was!” she says, sounding impatient.

“Hey! I may be used to stuff exploding, but usually it's Jack's fault!”

River gives him an inscrutable look: “It may well be.”

And she marches off.

“...Right. I knew that!”

And scrambles after her.


	4. Chapter 4

The explosions aren't stopping.

Daniel barely has the time to curse as he runs over shaking slabs of striped rock that seem on the brink of rupturing under his very feet, but he can hear the rumble and occasional booms quite well.

Except… they don't quite sound like explosions; more like the rumbling tremors of a series of landslides.

What the hell is going on?

“Earthquake!” answers River succinctly, vaulting over a golden-hued crumbling rock.

Daniel automatically follows, throwing himself between two collapsing sides of the cave that seem intent on merging into each other. “Did I say that out loud?”

But now that he thinks on it, she's obviously right. The shaking, the rumbling, the electrical charge in the air, the displacement of the ground and rock walls, it just might be possible that this is--

A portion of the reddish soil vanishes from right before him and he finds himself suddenly without purchase on the ground as it shifts and roils under his very feet, and he's too busy throwing himself aside and then jumping over the crack to complete the thought.

River does it for him.

“This ground is made of soft thick sediments, it's amplifying the shaking. The effects will likely continue for a while even if the seismic event is over. Chances are, we'll be caught in a landslide or a collapse soon.”

She really, really shouldn't sound so calm about it.

 

 

Daniel stops after a little while and gulps down some much needed air. It feels like it's been ages, but rationally, he knows it mustn't have been more than a minute or two. The worst of it is over, the jolts and rumble died down, but River is right: the area around them is far from settled.

She's eyeing a narrow passage between two orange-tinged rock walls whose sedimentary stripes have been shaken all out of sorts. The result is almost artistic, though Daniel could appreciate it more if they weren't still cracking ominously and about to be crumbling around them.

Assessing the situation, Daniel groans.

The newly created crevasse behind them isn't any better, however, so he resign himself to the umpteenth crazy run-for-his-life of his career.

“Of all the rotten luck...” he grumbles, taking a chance to draw breath before risking a squishy death (again).

“Luck? Ha! This is your friend's fault, mark my word,” River corrects him before launching herself through the iron-rich rocks at a run.

 

 

Daniel breathes a little more easily when they both make it out on the other side before the orangey rock crumbles, its previously ordered layers all upset.

“How can this be Jack's fault?” he cries. “You can't just make an earthquake! Can you?”

She gives him a dazzling smile: “Oh, earthquakes are rather easy to provoke – I actually have some experience with that.”

“You… what?”

“Well, you know how it is – there was this underground cartel managing illegal mines and a ridiculously oblivious panda-like dictator and far too many cyber-guards and really, what it boils down to is that my husband is fond of drastic solutions. But that is neither here nor there.”

She's scanning their surroundings with the expertise of a soldier now and slowly relaxing as all shaking and tremors are dying down, but Daniel is kind of stuck on the topic of provoking earthquakes.

“But don't you need, I don't know, nuclear bombs or something for that? Because these people don't have them and we sure as hell didn't bring any!” There is a faint accusatory tone to his voice.

She rolls her eyes: “Have you been watching 20 th  century superheroes movies?”

Daniel gapes at her.

“Nuclear bombs are useless for provoking earthquakes,” she lectures primly. “Also, far too messy. All those horrible side-effects. No, all you need is a dam.”

“There aren't any dams on this continent.”

“ _Or_ ,” she continues with a mild glare, “a sufficient mass being slung around.” She starts walking. “Truly, if you want to make an earthquake, forced shifting is far more effective than delivering a momentary blast – sling enough mass around to alter the pattern of stresses in the planet's crust and faults that might have been stable for a million years can suddenly be pushed to failure.”

“Still doesn't mean it's Jack's fault,” protests Daniel, who isn't in the mood for this particular lesson right now.

“I highly doubt anyone else might have caused this. I imagine he was trying to create a diversion in order to rescue you and your friends and things rather got out of his hands...”

“I can't believe anything Jack might do could be enough to cause… this!” he cries, almost offended, while gesturing at the devastation around them.

“I could go into details about the transfer modes of seismic motion in relation to the geometrical setting of deep and surface deposits, and how local amplification can result in high levels of shaking on the ground even from low-intensity earthquakes, but something tells me you wouldn't be too interested,” says River sardonically.

Daniel shoots her a half-hearted glare.

 

 

The ground under their feet trembles and plunges abruptly in a ravine. Swept up by the landslide, they cannot keep their balance and are thrust rather violently against the nearest rock wall – where, at least, they find enough of a hold to drag themselves out of the worst of the flow.

Daniel hugs the wall, closing his eyes and sort-of praying. He's quite grateful that his glasses are still on his nose.

When the last rumble of the landslide quiets, he opens his eyes and then closes them again with a wince. They're precariously balanced on the narrow strip of rock that wasn't dragged down in the tumble.

River doesn't seem fazed in the least – in fact, she's checking herself in a hand-mirror – so Daniel forces himself to sound nonchalant.

“Well, what do we do?”

“Do?” she raises an eyebrow at him and snaps the hand-mirror closed before walking confidently off onto the barely-there pathway. “We're escaping, what else do you want?”

Daniel can't believe his ears: “But… but… the Caves! We can't-- all that history! How do we stop this?”

She sighs – long-suffering and bored. “These Caves were lost! Nothing of them remained. Didn't I tell you when we met?”

Daniel gapes at her in horror: “We can't let that happen!”

She looks at him with pity. “It has already happened!”

Time travel, Daniel realizes, can give him a headache even if he doesn't think of it.

 

 

They're moving along the far too narrow ledge now, sliding slowly over the barely protruding rock. Daniel is trying every calming technique he's ever heard of, from any culture, in an attempt to forget the plunging abyss under their feet.

River moves confidently, her grace unimpaired by the lack of purchase for her feet. She jumps lightly over a gap in the rocky ledge.

“Will you be careful!” hisses Daniel, feeling his heart in his throat.

“Careful! Bah. Tried that once. Ever so dull,” River replies airily.

Not ten steps later, the ledge they're on collapses (as Daniel had suspected it would all along) and they're swept away with a landslide again, though thankfully the plunge is shorter this time and in the end, they tumble to soft ground.

“Ouch.”

Bless muddy, grassy soils everywhere, thinks Daniel.

 

 

River is up and about sooner than his bruised limbs would like, but Daniel doesn't complain out loud.

He's too busy worrying about the smallish village that has been devastated by the landslide, the cries and screams that feebly reach them even at a distance. There aren't many people, but none is uninjured and at a glance, he cannot find a single rigid structure still intact.

Without even realizing it, he's babbling aloud about first aid and damage assessment and what he can and cannot do and does River have any experience with this kind of things?

“No time. I doubt the locals are taking all this well, your friends are almost certainly in grave danger,” she rebukes him.

“But we have to help!”

“Yes, we do. It's what I just said.”

“No, I mean that village!” Everything in him is rebelling against abandoning them to their own devices.

“It really kills you when you can't make a difference, doesn't it?” wonders River aloud. She smiles sadly. “No wonder my husband spoke so highly of you.”

“Do I know your husband?”

“Oh, that's really too complicated a question to bother answering,” is the baffling reply. “Do you still have the quairwax?” she goes on before he can ask… anything, really.

He blinks, then pats his pocket reassuringly.

“Let's go then.”


	5. Chapter 5

SG-1 is squaring off with the natives.

There is a small crowd of angry and battered Igraians circling a pissed off Jack, an earnest Sam and an impassive Teal'c. The three of them are free and armed – proof that whatever Jack's done, it's worked, as usual – and trying to get themselves heard over the accusing shouting of the natives… without much success.

Daniel doesn't even know why he's surprised, it's a common enough situation.

Then he registers what his friends are yelling: “Where is Daniel? What have you done with him?”

“Oh, God,” Daniel breathes, horrified by his own selfishness.

Shame-faced, he runs in the middle of the tense situation without a care for his own safety, crying: “I'm here! It's ok, I'm fine, they didn't do anything!”

When everybody (and he does mean everybody, even the children peeking out of curtained doorsteps) turns to stare at him in silent shock, he slows down, hems and hums a little and points weakly to River: “Er, this is, hum, Doctor Song...” he trails off sheepishly.

Jack stares at him incredulously, his expression turning thunderous for a long moment – Daniel's heart sinks – but then he snorts, calms down, ends up guffawing. Daniel pretends not to hear the muttered comment about _a girl on every planet_ and smiles weakly at Sam, who's shaking her head and not hiding her obvious relief at finding him in one piece.

 

 

“Where did you find her, anyway? She doesn't look local,” says Jack with the careless attitude he throws at the world every day and the very sharp gaze that betrays his intelligence anyway.

River's openly checking him out, a tauntingly knowing look in her eyes, and Daniel fells a smidgen of disappointment, which embarrasses him a little bit.

“Uh, she's an archaeologist,” he replies to his friend.

“What kind of archaeologist carries a weapon?”

Daniel blinks. “Uh, I do,” he points out hesitantly, half-raising his hand.

Jack closes his eyes briefly. “Bad example.”

There is a very short, uncomfortable silence before Daniel adds as an afterthought: “She's from the future.”

“What?!” Sam's eyes are wide and her voice almost squeaks.

“Err… she has a time machine. I think.”

River interjects brazenly: “Technically, my husband does, I just steal it now and then. It's not like he'll ever notice.”

Jack's expression is growing thunderous again, but he injects a whiny note in his voice as he grumbles loudly: “What is with you people? Time machines are nothin' but trouble.”

“And what's wrong with trouble?” River asks, sultry.

 

 

The Igraians choose this moment to get over their confusion and make their outrage known.

There is some yelling back and forth, but Sam and Daniel have some experience with calming down enraged aliens who blame SG-1 for this or that disaster. And the archaeologist gains a lot of points when he produces the quairwax and babbles about regaining the Soil's blessing. It seems to calm most of the Igraians down.

When tensions lower, Teal'c pulls out a formal sentence from who knows where: “It is our hope, we will be able to repair any mistrust that may have developed between us so that we can pursue a long-lasting friendship between our people far into the future.”

They like it.

Some are even smiling.

“Heard that somewhere?” teases River.

“Yes,” Teal'c deadpans.

 

 

The locals turn to healing and fixing for a while, so the five visitors have some time to catch up while they help as they can.

Jack rolls his eyes at Daniel's mournful recounting of the Caves' destruction (“Trust you to find interesting rocks to play with in the back of nowhere,” he sighs in amusement) and – predictably – protests vociferously against taking part in any weird alien ritual. Even a tame one without sacrifices or other bullshit.

Daniel lets him whine, he knows his friend well, and when he falls silent, simply looks at him pointedly.

Jack curses but capitulates.

“Fine, fine, I'll do it!...”

But he won't make it easy on them – every detail is mocked, disparaged or argued against… or all three at once.

“Tell me again _why_ this is necessary?” he grumbles.

“You have to abase yourself to regain the connection with the Soil you've so carelessly thrown away.” River's look is challenging and just this side of insufferably smug.

Jack curses in five languages. Two of which non-Earth based. Fluently. Daniel feels a bit like a proud parent and then chastises himself for it.

“I understand time is short,” interjects Sam pointedly.

“Actually, it's all relative, dear,” says River carelessly, shaking out her unruly curls.

Jack perks up: “Oh, I know that one! Carter, you know it too.” He turns to River and points to Sam: “She could explain better if we had more time.”

“But we don't,” stresses Sam. The implied _so shut up, sir_ loud and clear.

Daniel trades a long-suffering glance with Teal'c.

“Can't I just…?” tries Jack.

“No!” exclaims River, sounding completely fed up. “You'll do this ritual they want you to do and you'll do it the way they want you to do it! Unless you want to engage in all out war with this people?” she asks in a sweetly challenging tone, glaring at them all.

Sam's eyes widen in indignant surprise: “Of course not! We're not… we're peaceful explorers! We don't want to harm anybody.”

“Unless otherwise provoked,” interjects their ever-so-diplomatic leader.

“Jack!” hisses Daniel. Why is he working for the military again?

“I'm fairly sure you're the one who's been doing all the provoking,” says River tartly. “Why are you even being so stubborn? It is a simple matter of respecting a different culture!” she rants peevishly. “If you could bother with being a little open-minded...”

“Hey! I can be as diplomatic and open-minded as anyone!” protests Jack.

Everybody looks away and coughs embarrassedly.

Jack opens and closes his mouth a couple times, irritation warring with rueful amusement.

 

 

Despite their fears, Jack isn't the type to back out of doing his part and the ritual, to Daniel's open relief, goes off without a hitch. It is actually quite fascinating and Daniel itches to dissect the symbolism of it but Jack's patience has been sufficiently tested today, he feels. Best to leave him be.

After that, everything goes better.

The Igraians' seem convinced that the earthquake was a result of Jack's breaking the taboo, and now that he's finally made amends by their standards, the last of their hostility is smoothed away.

Perhaps they have a chance to salvage the potential trade relationship, even.

“Well, this is where we part ways,” announces River.

Jack frowns: “Dr. Song...”

“River. Please,” she interrupts him, catlike and seductive.

Unimpressed, Jack says curtly: “I would feel much better if you could answer a few questions about your presence here. You know how it is.”

He gives her a very fake good-ol'-boy smile and she shrugs her abundant curls indifferently: “I'm sure you would.”

“Perhaps we could interest you in a tour of SGC?” offers Sam, as a way to get her in an environment where they _might_ have more control. Somehow, Daniel doesn't think it would work, but hey. It's not like she needs his help.

“Oh, I would _love_ to, darlings, but I simply don't have the time,” River says airily. “So much to do – buildings to document, natives to interview… I am here to study this old civilization, after all, it wouldn't do to return to the Department empty-handed – I'm sure you understand.”

Jack is eye-balling her. “Study? That's your tale? ...You really asking us to buy this?”

“I'm an archaeologist,” she points out. “Why else would I be here?”

“Thought you were a time-traveler.”

“That, too.”

“If you're a time traveller, shouldn't you point and laugh at archaeologists?”

She glares at him with more heat than he deserves.

“You're far more annoying than last time I met you. And far less charming.” She ostentatiously checks him out again. “Also thinner.”

Jack frowns, eyes sharp and remote: “I've never met you.”

“Yeah, well, not yet.”

He clenches his jaw, not at all happy with the implication. “All right, Dr. Hell-in-heels. I'll bite. What happened? Or… will happen?” He frowns. “Man, I hate time-travel. Nothin' but trouble.” He waits. “Well?”

She raises an eyebrow, pretending to be engrossed in her gun before slipping it back in its holster.

“What happened?” Jack insists with exaggerated patience.

She smiles flirtatiously: “It's a good story, Colonel. Can't be told, has to be lived.”

“Do you _practice_ being vague?”

“Oh, no, darling. It's all natural talent,” she replies with a seductive glance.

Jack smirks, still annoyed, but also honestly amused.

“She's married,” points out Daniel in an aside. At his friend's reproachful look, he raises a hand: “Just saying.”

Jack glowers, then turns to continue his questioning.

But Dr. River Song is no longer there.


	6. Chapter 6

They are about to leave this planet – Sam's already busy with the DHD – but Daniel feels compelled to take a last stroll through the still mostly ruined village, even though there is little to be seen in the dense darkness. No moons in this sky.

The night is stifling hot and the iron oxides make it smell like blood, but it is not entirely unpleasant.

He guesses her more than seeing her, leaning against a half-standing wall, and makes his way there.

 

As he draws closer, River is busy typing away on a device that isn't quite a tablet, but might as well be called that, in Daniel's tired mind.

He opens his mouth to say something but the most amazing sound tears the silence: a whirring hum morphing quickly in a series of wheezing noises and trumpeting thuds that make his very soul vibrate in tune with the universe at large.

He knows this sound.

Where has he heard it before?

The noise dies down and nothing but the quiet night remains, but the air is charged with something undefinable.

River smiles. “That's my ride.”

Squinting, Daniel can just about make out a rectangular shadow among all the other shadows. It does not look remotely like a spaceship, or even a place where a spaceship might appear. Then again, neither did the pyramids, he reflects.

It is harder to understand why it feels so right to him.

“It was a pleasure to work with you, Dr. Jackson,” she says.

“Likewise, Dr. Song,” he answers automatically.

“Do give my regards to the Colonel.”

He nods.

She doesn't move and he belatedly realizes she won't move until he's gone. She probably doesn't want him to see her time machine. Right.

A bit disappointed, he smiles awkwardly and leaves, walking slowly towards the Stargate.

It's time to go home.

 

Although he does not turn to watch, he hears the sound of the universe again - the very same of his dreams.

Daniel smiles, because against all logic, he feels better.

Just like in his dreams.

 

...Those are dreams, right?


End file.
